Where the Shadows Fall the Deepest
by Hahren Jezek
Summary: "During the night when she should be hearing his snoring at the base of her ear, or when she should see the Archdemon in her dreams, she sees nothing but the walls of her cell and hears nothing but spiders that skitter in the darkest reaches—and she knows what it is to be a prisoner." Left alone Post!Blight, Cousland is held and tried for War Crimes.


**A/N - First off I'd like to thank Orangeflavor and Awinters25 for beta-ing for me. It was so easy to progress from the outline to the actual chapter with discussion and assistance. Also, they're both super good, so go look them up and read their stuff. This is a project that I'm working on in between my other longer ones. Without anymore blab from me, here's the first chapter.**

* * *

"They will kill you," he says.

Her shadow stretches itself across the low banked window. The candle that sits by her mat burns low in the disk, and the gentlest of tickles treks up her lower back. Stone floors busy themselves with growing mold in the corner crevices. She misses him. Every night he comes to her like this, with gentle touches barely out of reach, and smiles never again to see. She feels his breath as it puffs out gently against her ear. He is so close, and still—never farther.

It makes a hollowness so deep inside of her that she wonders how she breathes. Happy times laze about in her peripheral. She sees his face as it was underneath Lothering's sun—straining and weary, but with a reassuring smile forcing his cheeks higher each time she looks back to him. She sees the pink in his cheeks the first time he truly sees her. She sees his lips curve higher. For a moment, she almost remembers the spark of life that used to be in his eyes.

Her chest aches. The battered woman tips her head back and closes her eyes for a time. With effort, she raises her hand higher to push steadily matting locks of hair away from the stump that remains of her shield arm. Had she not lost the limb…

She feels it once more and winces. Forcing her eyes open to keep from reliving the same horrors again, she steps closer to the window and leans forward to rest the heel of her palm against the stone sill. The Blight is past, and the sun rises and falls just the same. The streets fill with ribbons and bright colors. Her dreams stay bleak. Sometimes she sees nothing at all, and these are the worst nights.

A pair of callused fingers trace up the length of her side. He comes nearer to her, looming. Just as she feels its feather light touch, it's gone again, and she is left with his haunting.

"They will kill you," he says again.

She can feel his fingertips as he brushes them over a broken and bent collarbone. His touch kisses her neck, and her lips part. If she turns to face him, to grasp at his cloak and to hold him against her, she knows he will not be there. Her shadow falls deeper. Slowly, she curls and flexes her hand into a fist, and she relishes the aching soreness that sets in with bones that will never mend.

The first of their scars came quickly. She remembers it clearly, the first blow that he takes for her. They dash up flights of crumpling stairs with weapons readied. She hears him call to her. Inches from the next corner, she skids as he hauls her from danger, and the spiked club connects with his back.

Some spikes punch through the scales of his armor, but he never tells her this.

She knows that he bleeds for her. And hates herself for it.

Her eyes flick up to the thick glass panes of the window and she peers at what glimmers of her reflection she can still make out in the darkness. She sees scars and worn skin. She sees a nose that breaks each week it seems. She sees deep worry lines etching their way into her flesh, and she sees eyes that know too well the darkness inside of the world. The woman that he loved is no longer living. In her place stands a specter with greying skin and empty eyes.

He is dead now, and soon they will come for her, too.

"They will kill you," he says, urgently.

Footsteps echo through the stone hallways and her lower lips sets itself to trembling. It is not supposed to be this way. She still hears tales from her grandfather and old teachers of great victories against Archdemons and the glorious history of the Wardens. Never does she hear of the price. The cost does not matter—the sacrifices do not matter—as long as there is victory.

They are victorious.

The world yet lives, and villagers begin repairs in the countryside, though it aches from the ravages of war. The Archdemon's corpse withered into the stones atop Fort Drakkon, and leaves a foul smelling stain that washing will not cleanse. The Queen returns to her reign and the nation rebuilds. Ferelden starts with the matter of the remaining Grey Warden.

A moth flits by her face and circles lazily over to the dim candle, and her eyes begin to follow it. It can still be free. The webbing that coats each corner and hanging beam of her cell so thickly do not yet act as nooses.

Its brown shape bobs near the farthest reaches of the candle's light. So close to hope.

Keys clank together outside of the door behind her. She hears the guards as they speak in muffled voices and grumbles. It is not the first time that she has been held against her will, but during the night when she should be hearing his snoring at the base of her ear, or when she should see the Archdemon in her dreams, she sees nothing but the walls of her cell and hears nothing but spiders that skitter in the darkest reaches—and she knows what it is to be a prisoner.

"Warden," he says- a different he. Not hers. His is a voice that will never again fill the empty spaces left behind.

She turns to face him, and the breeze from the open door slips in ahead of the guard and kisses her cheek. The candle flickers out. With her eyes focusing on a torch far behind her guard, she walks forward to meet him and offers her scar mottled arm to bind. In the months of her captivity, months she spends first mending and then in endless trial sessions, she grows used to this routine.

Behind them, without the light of the candle, the moth flits higher into the cell and tangles itself within the spider webs. It thrashes and _thucks _little wings against the sticky strings. Not far away, a grey spider tip-toes onto the delicate strands.

"This way, Warden," he says to her, knowing better than to pull the rope too tautly as he leads her out of her cell. She follows, not for the first time, and keeps her eyes fixated on the torch's glow. It will end soon, and it is the only thought that brings her comfort. The door remains open behind them for their return. In the highest corner, the spider works busily to wrap its meal in web.

She never forgets the sound of the distant, pitiful, desperate flapping of velvet wings.


End file.
